


Buon Compleanno

by geekmama



Series: All Holiday [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-12 02:47:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11727903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekmama/pseuds/geekmama
Summary: “We have to have cake, it was your birthday last week...Dinner at Angelo's comes to a tasty conclusion.





	Buon Compleanno

**Author's Note:**

> For the 'Birthday' prompt.
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“We have to have cake, it was your birthday last week. Let’s have the Pastiera alla napoletana.” 

Sherlock looked up from the dessert menu, brows rising as he considered his tablemate. His pathologist. His _date_. His… Molly. Her smile was currently of the sort that was usually described as “impish”, and it made him feel very odd. As did her entire expression. Her entire person, really (the curves and shadows of cheek, chin, neck and breast neutralizing sentience for the briefest of moments). He opened his mouth to ask, _How did you know it was my birthday?_ but realized that of course she would know, she’d seen his medical records and would have noted it and remembered, there was a reason she was the youngest specialist registrar in Barts' long and storied history (he suddenly recalled the day he’d run across her in the hospital’s museum, years ago, and how annoyed he’d been by a) her cheery demeanor, and b) her obviously extensive knowledge and perceptive observations, hinting at a mind that might possibly approach his own in acuity). 

He opted, instead, to sit up very straight and peer down his nose at her.  “I was considering the cheese tray.” 

She _twinkled_ (there was no other word for it). “We can have that, too. That’s what birthdays are for.” She turned to Angelo, who’d been hovering (and fighting down an amused smirk, curse him). “The cake and the cheese tray. And some Moscato D’Asti?” 

“ _Subito, signorina_ ,” Angelo said, and tossed her a fingertips kiss in approval. 

Sherlock glared after the man as he moved swiftly toward the kitchen. 

“What?” Molly demanded, her eyes still laughing. “He _is_ Italian!” 

“He’s lived in Clerkenwell since he was six years old.” 

“Well, I think he’s very nice, and he obviously thinks the world of you.” 

“Yes. I got him off a murder charge seven years ago.” But then his Mind Palace dredged up some pertinent scenes and he shrugged. “He _is_ nice. A long time ago, before I was… well. I was living rough and Angelo basically kept me from starving.” He also suspected Angelo had been one of those who’d aided Mycroft in arranging his “extraction” from London to an exclusive and extremely remote drug rehab facility, but as he’d never been able to confirm Angelo’s collusion he couldn’t hold it against the man. And would hardly do so now, he supposed, even if it were true. 

He stared across the table at Molly, lovely, bright, innocent Molly, and he felt himself shrink within at the thought of her discovering how low he’d sunk, once upon a time.

But her smile changed, to something both softer and wiser, and she said, “How fortunate you’ve been to have people who’ve cared so deeply for you, who’ve been able to see you for what you are, though you’ve tried so often to hide it.” 

He was definitely “buffering” now, as John would say. 

She went on, flushing slightly. “I know you don’t like to speak of the past -- I don’t myself, and mine has to be deadly dull in comparison to yours, I’m sure. But if you ever feel… that is…” Her voice trailed off, her smile fading quite away. She now looked embarrassed and a little worried. 

It occurred to him then, as indeed it had a number of times in the last few years, that she might very well be the best of them, those who could “see” him and care for him in spite of it all. And that he could tell her almost anything. “Thank you,” he said, simply. 

She smiled again, that light back in her eyes, and he was aware that he was smiling, too, and that he felt… _happy_. 

“Ah, no time for making eyes at each other,” boomed Angelo, startling them both. He walked up with a tray, followed by a minion tenderly carrying a cloth-wrapped bottle. “Here we are, a big piece of Pastiera alla napoletana, my sainted nonna’s own recipe, with two forks so you can share, and here is your cheese tray to finish! Antonio, the wine!” Angelo tenderly received the bottle, and Antonio swiftly placed two flutes. “Mongioia 2011 Crivella: only the best for you and your lady, Sherlock!” He pulled the cork with skill gleaned from years of practice, and poured, first Molly’s flute, then Sherlock’s. 

Sherlock picked up his flute and, inspired, said, “A toast?” 

Molly was busy flushing a deeper pink, thanks to Angelo’s _your lady_ , but she pulled herself together and replied, “By all means. _Buon compleanno,_ Sherlock!” She lifted her glass. 

Angelo clapped his hands at her impromptu Italian, laughing, but Sherlock further delighted him -- and Molly -- by murmuring, with a fond smile, “ _Mille grazie, mia signorina_ ,” just before the crystal flutes chimed sweetly together.

 

~.~

 


End file.
